The sky hadn't yet decided if it would bring light. Hazy streaks of purple and smoke-gray smeared across the early dawn, casting a strange pallor over the ridge. Parashu stood alone at its crest, the wind wrapping around him like a forgotten prophecy. It tugged at his torn cloak, carried whispers he was only beginning to understand—fragments of something older, deeper, and dangerous.
Beneath his shirt, the Blood Sigil pulsed, slow and steady—its rhythm mirroring the beat of his own heart.
Master Vishma's voice lingered in his thoughts.
> "You will play the role that decides the war, just as your father once did."
He closed his eyes, inhaled. The air hummed against his skin. The technique Vishma had carved into his bones—Air Flesh—waited like a coiled serpent beneath his flesh. His body bore bruises, cracked ribs, and torn sinew… but his spirit had never been sharper.
Bootsteps crunched behind him.
Veerath's voice was calm, but firm. "Are you ready?"
Parashu turned to face him. The younger warrior's eyes didn't flicker.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
Veerath gave a single nod. "Then brace yourself. The enemy is nearly upon us."
---
Far off—beyond the tree-covered slopes and rolling fog—the land trembled under heavy boots.
The Kara Army's elite moved like death itself. Precision gave way to pressure. Their formation was tight, brutal, and merciless. At their head rode a figure swathed in darkness, metal armor dull and cold, his blade etched in runes that bled old curses into the wind.
His eyes burned—liquid steel, forged in fire.
Behind him, a flood of soldiers advanced in silence, a tidal wave of black steel and crimson banners that drowned out the dawn. Their war drums followed, a deep, slow thunder that felt like it beat beneath the skin.
They were coming for blood.
---
Back in the village, chaos rippled just beneath the surface.
Leaders barked orders. Mothers shoved children into shelters. The old clasped hands and whispered desperate prayers to gods they had long ignored. Fear painted every face, but none turned away. They knew what was coming.
Parashu stood among the fighters. Unit B was at the northern wall. Unit C secured the marketplace. Weapons were drawn. Eyes locked forward.
He flexed his fingers.
This was no longer training. This was no longer preparation. This was the edge of war.
---
The first arrow struck before the sun broke through the mist.
A scout collapsed from the watchtower—throat pierced, blood soaking into the wood. His body fell with a sickening crunch.
Then the horns came.
Low. Guttural. The sound of monsters howling through iron.
The Kara surged from the fog like living nightmares—blades drawn, faces hidden behind grotesque helms carved with twisted grins. Fire bloomed from behind their ranks—catapults hurling flaming barrels that cracked upon the village's fields, igniting everything in their path.
Parashu tightened his grip on his axe.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Only war.
---
"UNIT B, HOLD THE NORTH!" Veerath's command cut through the noise like thunder.
"UNIT C—MARKET ROAD! BLOCK THEM NOW!"
Screams rose. The wheat fields became an inferno. Stones cracked under the feet of charging soldiers.
Parashu didn't wait for more.
He moved.
---
The first Kara fighter rushed him with twin short blades—fast, accurate, but predictable.
Parashu dropped low. His axe met the man's chin in an upward arc, splitting helm and skull in one brutal swing. Blood splattered across the stones.
Another came from the right—Parashu twisted with the wind, the Air Flesh activating mid-motion.
For a heartbeat, he vanished.
When he reappeared, his axe was already lodged in the man's back.
The Blood Sigil on his chest glowed hotter now—bright, angry. With each breath, with each enemy slain, it pulsed brighter.
---
Elsewhere, Veerath moved like a blade loosed from fate.
His sword carved clean lines through flesh and bone. No wasted movement. No mercy. Every strike was practiced, personal. He wasn't just fighting.
He was avenging.
---
But the Kara had beasts.
The ground quaked as a massive warbeast—some monstrous hybrid of rhino and iron—charged through the barricades, tossing defenders like rag dolls. The thing snorted steam. Its hide clanged with every strike.
Behind it came a general—towering, armored, wielding a warhammer that looked carved from stone.
He raised a hand and pointed straight at Parashu.
> "That one. The cursed heir. Bring me his head!"
---
Parashu didn't flinch.
His jaw clenched. Smoke stung his eyes. Blood smeared his face. And somewhere deep within him, something stirred.
He slammed the head of his axe into his palm.
"Come and try."
---
The warbeast roared.
Parashu charged.
The battlefield ignited—steel meeting flame, fate crashing against legacy.
This was no longer about survival.
This was about who would shape the future.
And who would be erased by it.
---